The darkness enveloped him, stroking, caressing, whispering sweet nothings. It was dark pitch, so opaque as to almost have tangible substance. He swore he could feel touches, light and feathery and not-quite-there. These sensations were ever-present, never invasive, and the moment he paid them any mind they were gone. It came to be that by the time he was lying sprawled beneath his creamy sheets a tickling bubble of anticipation would rise in his stomach. Sometimes, when the waiting was good enough and the temptation strong, a lithe hand would slip under the cool cotton and help bring to fruition the efforts of the night. There was no one there, of course; only the ghosting images behind his eyelids accompanied heavy breathing and subdued moans. Tonight the bed seemed to dip beside him, and he could almost hear the sounds of another human. When he awoke the next morning to a slight stain on the rumpled bedding, Izaya smirked. For some reason he had the desire to pay Ikebukuro a visit.